


all right

by lulabo



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:43:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulabo/pseuds/lulabo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia goes to visit Lizzie and, one emergency dental surgery later, ends up watching reality TV with Darcy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allthingsholy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthingsholy/gifts).



> Editing the story to add: commenter A (lovely soul whoever you are) notes that this isn't really what it's like when you get wisdom teeth out. Which is entirely my fault because a) didn't get a beta and b) I don't have/won't get wisdom teeth so I was going off google and bugging people. As you do. All errors are mine and I shall be happy to continue in my ignorance because gross.

It started with a headache the day she landed in San Francisco. No big, Lydia thought, probably just something to do with air pressure and flying and stuff. But then the next day her jaw felt tender and swollen, and there was definitely pain by her back teeth. She ignored it, but she couldn’t manage much of anything for dinner except a bite or two of ice cream. Then this morning, this morning the pain in her jaw was so intense she was afraid to open her mouth. So she told Lizzie, and now she’s sitting in the waiting room in some dentist’s flipping through a _People_ magazine from last September and wishing she’d never left home.

The examination is the definition of unpleasant. Once the words “emergency extraction” are thrown around, Lydia’s handing over her insurance card and calling Lizzie because of course her wisdom teeth are impacted and of course it has to happen when she’s spending the week with her sister, because if her life were easy, she’d be someone else. Someone whose last name isn’t Bennet.

The other three wisdom teeth are apparently just as bad as the one that’s currently causing the left side of her face to puff out like rising bread, they’re going to have to put her under. They tell her how great it is that she hasn’t been able to eat or drink, because it means they can just go ahead and yank out those teeth that are only embedded in the bones of her jaw rather than wait another day to prevent a reaction to the drugs. She calls Lizzie, wanting to cry because this is her vacation and it’s all so stupid, they’re not even teeth that people use, and Lizzie promises to be there when she wakes up. 

But it’s not so much waking up as it is sliding out of the chair with a dim awareness that her hips are below her shoulders and somewhere beneath them are her knees and then there are her feet and they’re on the ground but the ground seems really far away so it’s good that Lizzie’s got an arm around her waist and is stronger than she looks so she can half-carry Lydia out to the car. Lizzie locks her in without even the keys for the radio so that Lizzie can go to the pharmacy for the Percoset and extra gauze and ginger ale. She would be indignant about the keys thing but her mother always said the surest way to get kidnapped is to sit as a passenger in an idle car with the keys in the ignition and no one in the driver’s seat, so she understands Lizzie’s dealing with a lifetime of inherited paranoia. Plus, she knows she’s going to fall asleep again before Lizzie even comes back, and a sleeping girl in an idle car is probably an even bigger temptation to would-be kidnappers than someone singing along to Ke$ha.

Lizzie has a studio apartment in a neighborhood that has an actual name--her sister lives in a city where neighborhoods have names, not just “that street over there”--but when she shakes Lydia awake, they’re on a street a lot posher than Lizzie’s. It takes a lot of concentration to roll towards Lizzie and arrange her face as best she can in an expression of hurt betrayal, as much as is possible now that her cheeks resemble candlepin bowling balls. 

“I know, I know,” Lizzie says, her tone conciliating, and she reaches for Lydia’s hands. “But you’ll be so much more comfortable here, I promise. Your own bed, your own room, and his TV is disgustingly HD. My fridge doesn’t even have an ice maker, which you are definitely going to need.” She pauses, looking chagrined. “And I have a meeting with potential investors from Boston who are literally only going to be in the city for an hour, so Will’s going to sit with you. I would never, ever do this to you, Lydia, you know that, but this is literally the only time I could meet with these people and we set it up a month ago, and I promise you that Will is going to take such good care of you that you won’t even want me when I come back.”

Lydia’s tempted to say she doesn’t want her now, but she’s got a toilet paper roll’s worth of gauze in her mouth, so instead she tries to wrinkle her nose and ends up wincing. Lizzie says she has a bag of Lydia’s stuff in the trunk, and she helps Lydia into the building, which is swank and has a doorman and an elevator and probably a pool and a putting green and an astronomy tower and bookcases that are actually doors. Lizzie waves to the doorman and half-carries Lydia to the elevator, which of course has a P button above all the normal number buttons, one that requires a key, which of course Lizzie has, and when the elevator doors open, they’re in a narrow hallway and it’s the first time Lydia’s ever been in a penthouse.

Lizzie sets her up on the couch and flutters around the apartment a few moments. Lydia watches her: Lizzie knows where everything is, the glasses, the remote, a fuzzy blanket for Lydia’s feet. She points out the guest bedroom and bath to Lydia and tells her she’s leaving the bag of pharmacy supplies on the counter in the latter, and not to forget to change her gauze. She fills a bag of ice, wraps it in a kitchen towel, and hands it to Lydia as she drops to the floor in front of the couch. Lydia presses the ice to her cheek, and it hurts like a motherfucker but feels good in exactly the same way, so she settles into the pillow Lizzie gave her and fiddles with the remotes.

“Where’s Darceface?”

Lizzie’s eyes barely flicker. _“William_ is on his way from the office. He should be here any minute.”

She shoves the remotes at Lizzie. “Show me how to get to the Netflix.”

Darcy’s instant queue is a weird mix of foreign movies, horror films, and sports documentaries from ESPN. Lydia stops scrolling about halfway through it and just starts hopping into other categories. Comedy. Romance. Reality television. She’s toggling between new releases and recently added when the elevator pings and Lizzie shoots to her feet like someone’s pulled her strings.

It’s all murmured conferrals behind her back, so Lydia tunes them out and tries to focus her eyes properly. The pain meds are only dulling the pain, not killing it, and sleep keeps gently tugging at her eyelids. But she won’t just drift off in the middle of Darcy’s penthouse the second Lizzie takes off, so she chooses a set of familiar faces and turns the volume up on the TV.

Lizzie comes around the couch and kneels down to Lydia’s eye level. She glances over her shoulder at the TV and laughs a little. “Seriously, Lydia, again? Still?” Lydia only shrugs, and Lizzie shakes her head with a fond smile on her face. “So, I have this meeting, and then I’m going to pick up some soup and some ice cream, and you and I will just couch it until you feel better, okay? I shouldn’t be long at all.”

Lydia nods. “Good luck.”

Lizzie squeezes her hand and is gone. She does not, as Lydia expects her to, leave her with instructions to be nice, to be friendly. To play along. Either she trusts Lydia to do those things anyway or expects her to fall asleep, but it’s nice to think that Lizzie doesn’t automatically expect her to be on her worst behavior. She hears the elevator doors hiss close, and she’s suddenly aware of the sheer space of this apartment, all the air between her and Darcy. She can hear him in the kitchen, making coffee. Lydia shifts her ice on her cheek and resists the temptation to peek over the back of the couch at him, to spy on him on his home turf. She keeps her eyes resolutely on the TV.

_“And that? That would be Kristin, another junior. Wherever Kristin went, drama followed. She thinks she’s hot. Okay, I guess she is, but she can’t stand me. Here’s the reason why: Stephen.”_

He has a very quiet walk, Darcy, even on the slick hardwood floors of his penthouse. Lydia doesn’t notice he’s standing at the far end of the couch until he clears his throat. She glances over at him, and he’s holding a tall glass of ginger ale in his hand, decorated with a bright pink curly straw. 

“Good afternoon, Lydia,” he says. “I’m very sorry about your... dental situation. I thought you might want something to drink?”

She nods, and Darcy drags the nearby coffee table closer to Lydia so that the glass is within reach. “Thanks.”

“Please let me know if you need anything else,” he tells her, and he moves to sit in one of the armchairs near the couch. 

“You don’t have to keep me company,” she says, “if you don’t want to.”

He sits and adjusts his tie. Which he’s still wearing. That answers one question, Lydia thinks. 

“I’m unused to having an afternoon free like this,” he says. “I’m quite happy to spend it here with you.”

It’s the kind of thing people say just to be nice, the kind of thing they say to smoothe over awkwardness. But the corners of Darcy’s mouth are turned up just slightly, and though it’s not like she’s spent tons of time with him, Lydia does know that Darcy doesn’t fake smiles, not really. When he tries, he ends up looking like a gassy troll doll. The look on his face right now falls somewhere on a sliding scale between encouraging and friendly. Lydia tips her head in reply, forgetting for a moment her head feels a bit like a rotting melon, so she reaches for her soda and takes a careful sip. Every single thing about her mouth at the moment is disgusting, and the bubbles make it all disgusting and weird, but she’s thirsty enough that it also feels good. Disgusting and weird and good. She resituates the ice against jaw and carefully rests her head against the pillow. 

“Do you mind if I ask what it is you’re watching?” Darcy asks.

Lydia cuts her eyes at him, unsure if he’s serious. “It’s _Laguna Beach.”_

“Is it a documentary?”

She’d laugh, but it would hurt, and it would probably embarrass him. “Not hardly,” Lydia says. “It was a reality show on MTV a long time ago. I used to watch it pretty much constantly when I was, like, 13 or 14.” 

Darcy nods at this and turns to the television, and Lydia watches him as he actually pays attention to LC tell the story of her friendship with Stephen and the root of her feud with Kristin. He’s really listening; she can tell by the set of his forehead, the way he’s pitched slightly forward in his seat. Lydia takes another sip of soda and cuddles up to watch Lo and LC plan a party for absolutely no reason than they’re on a TV show and they want to. She remembers watching this show in the basement, stealing VHS tapes from her mom’s soap opera collection to tape reruns that she would watch over and over, learning these glamorous girls by heart. It’s weird now, their flip phones, their giant sunglasses (she would still take any one of those pairs of giant sunglasses), their practiced mannerisms. But it’s so familiar and so comfortable, it’s like the ice against her jaw, dulling away an ache.

…

Her jaw. Is _throbbing._

Her jaw and the rest of her head, actually, are throbbing. She pushes herself into a sitting position, leaning hard on her palms. Beneath her hands is cool, crisp linen rather than whatever superfabric is on Darcy’s couch. Squinting, still sleep-stunned, she looks around the room. It’s all mauvey beiges and oak; it should be spare and stark, but with the chaise longue in the corner piled with pillows, the bed a white mountain in the middle of the room, it’s chicly cozy. Lydia glances over her shoulder, and on the pillow where she’s been passed out is a soft towel, dotted with blood. She wrinkles her nose and slides out of the bed, which makes her feel like a child, it’s so high, and her feet hit a plush, smooshy throw rug when they finally find the floor. It’s a sweet little room, she decides, and it has its own bathroom where Lizzie left all Lydia’s medical stuff. She locks herself in for a moment to do the necessary ministrations. It’s beyond revolting, and she’s glad she has no appetite whatsoever.

She opens the door of the guest room and pads towards the kitchen. She hears Darcy’s voice and stops in her tracks, hovering just at the end of the hall. 

“She’s resting comfortably, I think,” he says. “She drifted off watching a television show. I considered leaving her be, but I was afraid she’d wake with a stiff neck. There was also--after she fell asleep, there was a small pool of saliva and blood, and I didn’t want her to continue to sleep in that position.” He pauses. “It was nothing, Lizzie. I took her to the guest room, she never even stirred.”

Lydia waits, wondering if she should feel weird about this. Gigantor Darcy _carrying_ her while she slept? It would involve getting his arms around her. Holding her, having his hand her under knees. She remembers none of it, so it must be true that she was as passed out as a frat boy after a three day bender. It means he was certainly gentle, and even if he was as grossed out by the leakage on her pillow as she retroactively is, he doesn’t seem to have minded. He didn’t want her to sleep in a puddle of her own bloody drool, she thinks again. He put her to bed, made her comfortable. She shifts on her feet. She does feel weird about it, but not because he’d picked her up. Because it was nice of him, and every time he’s nice to her it feels less like he’s doing it out of obligation to Lizzie and more because he kind of likes her. As a person. Which is a thing she hasn’t given too much thought to before, but it’s true that if things keep going the way she knows they will, Darcy’s pretty much going to be her brother one of these days, meaning that whatever delicate balance of peaceful coexistence they’ve established is going to keep... evolving. Darcy’s clearly beaten her to this realization, she thinks, and decided to embrace the whole knotty situation by _trying._ Trying to make it natural, their being together, make it comfortable. Because he likes her. 

She and Lizzie video chat almost every day lately. It’s nice; it makes home feel less lonely with neither of her sisters at home. She’s learned from their chats that Lizzie and Darcy spend as much time in each other’s homes as they do in their own. Her conversations with her sister aren’t exactly private when they’re being had in the confines of a small studio apartment, and when Lizzie’s broadcasting from the kitchen of Darcy’s apartment, Lydia’s always aware that Darcy’s probably somewhere on the other side of Lizzie’s tablet. Not eavesdropping, or anything. Just... present. Because Darcy and Lizzie are a matched set now. Which means that even though she hasn’t done a whole lot to get to know Darcy better, Darcy’s gotten to know Lydia. Just by being around. It’s the kind of thing that could really make her angry, if she let it. She doesn’t want to let it.

Darcy’s still talking. “Of course, of course. I’m glad to hear it’s going so well. Lizzie, I am sure Lydia will understand. This is a significant opportunity and--I will communicate that for you. I know. Lizzie, I know. But she is your sister, and she’ill want--Lizzie, she will not think that. I have already called out for delivery, I assure you she’s in good hands.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is low. “That might be inappropriate with your sister here,” he says. Lydia shudders, biting down a little too hard on her gauze. “I’m very proud of you,” he says a moment later. “I hope that doesn’t sound condescending, you know I mean it from--you’re welcome, and I--I do as well.. Take your time and get home safely.”

Lydia pads into the kitchen in her bare feet and waits for Darcy to turn around. He starts a little, when he sees her, but smiles sheepishly. 

“I hope the phone didn’t wake you. I forgot to turn off the ringer.”

She waves her hand. “No, my teeth woke me. I’m kinda thirsty and I think I need another Percoset.”

Darcy turns to get her a fresh glass of ginger ale and reminds her that she only has two pain pills left. Lydia leans forward, rests her elbows on the granite countertop of the center island, and waits for Darcy to set the glass in front of her before she ostentatiously rolls her eyes. “Is Lizzie gonna have you check my temp, too?” she teases.

There’s a half second of panic before he catches the joke, and he smiles. Again, with the smiling, she thinks. It’s the smallest possible smile, but for Darcy it’s like a full-out belly laugh. “She was certainly very specific in her instructions. That was she on the phone--”

Lydia dips her head towards the straw. “Let me guess, the investors were so enchanted with Lizzie’s sparkling personality they postponed their flight back to Boston to take her out to dinner.”

Darcy’s eyebrows fly towards his hairline. “Did you hear--”

She shakes her head. “I could have told you that was going to happen before she left for the meeting. I know my sister,” she says. “I had a good nap, but I think I’m gonna go watch more TV. I don’t know if you’re into _Laguna Beach,_ or anything... Anyway. I’m gonna go lie down.”

He follows her back towards the TV area. There’s a fresh pillow at her place, or at least a fresh pillow case, and her blanket is still smooshed up at the end of the couch. She settles in and tucks her feet up under her, making room for Darcy at the other end. If he wants it. He seems to waffle for a moment before retreating to the armchair, which is a relief. A little bit of a relief, Lydia thinks. It’s not like she’s ready to advance to _hugging,_ or anything, just because Darcy turns out to be a pretty good post-op nurse.

“I have to admit that I don’t fully understand the animosity between LC and the other girl. Kristin?” he says.

Lydia picks up the remote and flicks to the recently viewed menu on Netflix. “Dude. You’ve never been a teenaged girl, you’re never going to understand LC and Kristin,” she says. “They’re both popular alpha queen bees, they’re never gonna get along.”

It’s weird watching montages of high schoolers trying on bikinis with Darcy; there’s less actual plot in this show than she remembers, more sequences of people packing and drinking and falling into pools. Part of her wants to offer to Darcy that they can watch anything, since this is probably super boring for him, but she can see him falling into the whole world of _Laguna Beach_ like it’s an anthropological study. His brow is knit in concentration, and he’s leaning forward, his chin on tented fingers and his elbows on his knees. When Stephen ruffles LC’s hair poolside at Cabo, Lydia reaches for her soda and takes a long sip, weighing her words.

“I gotta say, Darcy, I didn’t really think that _Laguna Beach_ would be your thing. I figured you’d be more into those Swedish-Danish murder mystery shows,” she says. 

Darcy’s expression is sheepish. “I admit, this is not normally the sort of thing that I watch. It’s... interesting,” he says carefully. “I don’t recall having so much free time when I was in high school, myself. Granted, my high school experience was complicated by certain personal events, but these people seem to spend a significant amount of time at parties. Or shopping.”

It’s strange to think of Darcy in high school. To think that he could have been young at one point. Not that he’s old now, or anything, but there’s something about him that seems like he’s already her dad’s age, already so old she’s never going to catch up. Like he’s always been that way. If she’s _energetic,_ he’s _staid._ Part of her does want to ask him about certain personal events, but she’s doped up on pain pills and she needs ice and given that they’re watching underage hotties pickling their livers and passive-aggressively flirting to enrage their supposed enemies, it’s probably not the time for private revelations and difficult conversations. So she tells him that the difference is that he didn’t star in a reality show when he was in high school, and would he mind getting her some ice.

They kill the afternoon watching the rest of the season and playing cards. Darcy teaches her how to play gin, and the cards and the ice keep her awake. Lydia wants to ask about the food Darcy told Lizzie he ordered, and just when she’s starting to feel not just like she’d like something to eat but maybe she needs to eat, the buzzer sounds and there’s a delivery person in the foyer. There are three different kinds of soups and stuff in huge takeout containers and a mystery bag Darcy immediately puts in the freezer with something approaching a smirk on his face. Not a jerkface smirk, Lydia thinks, but a friendly-teasing-obnoxious-dorkface smirk. She files that away and tells him she’ll take whatever soup will be easiest to slurp. He serves up French onion soup (no crouton) in a bowl on an actual tray for her. He takes for himself some kind of seafood risotto thing out of a cereal bowl, which he eats sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch. 

The dinner is good, even if Lydia’s mouth is still way too tender for something as hot as soup. She and Darcy watch LC pack and Lo mock her faux-designer purses; she wants to joke with him about high school seniors who don’t know how to do laundry, but it occurs to her that it’s entirely possible that Darcy has never encountered a washing machine in the wild. Food delivery, housekeeping services, the idea that your life is total chaos because your mom had to fire the maid--those are the things that are probably less foreign to Darcy than the trips to Cabo and endless strings of parties. But she swallows that comment, too, and thanks him for the soup, and the bag of ice he brings as soon as she sets her spoon down, and the fact that her glass has never approached empty all afternoon.

When Lizzie arrives, calling hello, they’ve just watched LC climb into Stephen’s truck and realize that she’s headed out into the world on her own. Darcy does not, as Lydia expects him to, immediately rise to his feet and hurry to the kitchen to greet Lizzie. He answers her greeting and keeps half an eye on the TV as he gathers up his empty dish and Lydia’s tray, asking Lizzie if she’s eaten.

“Just the world’s tiniest salad,” she says. “Like I realize it’s bad form to tell people treating you to dinner that you’re really craving something from a big chain restaurant that serves a week’s worth of calories in a single dish, but it was _so tempting_ when they mentioned the posh new place they wanted to go.”

Darcy takes everything back to the kitchen as Lizzie’s complaining. Lydia sinks down into the couch, pressing her face into her pillow and her ice pack to give them a moment of privacy as they greet each other. Their conversation is low and indistinct, though Lydia hears Lizzie sigh. From contentment or fatigue or something else she’d rather not contemplate, Lydia’s not sure, but it’s another few moments before Lizzie wanders to the couch and leans down to rest her head against Lydia’s. She hangs over the back of the couch, fussing with Lydia’s blanket and discreetly checking her sister’s temp. She wants to know how Lydia’s feeling, what kind of afternoon she had.

“It was good,” Lydia says. “Darce and I marathoned all of season one.” She shrugs with one shoulder, gesturing to Lizzie with her bag of ice. “He was an excellent substitute nurse. I think he’s kind of into LC.”

Lizzie’s smile is so wide and so, so bright, Lydia can’t help but roll her eyes and grin back at her. Like, Lizzie has always had the biggest smile of anyone in the universe, it would break most faces in half, but Lydia thinks Lizzie might actually tear up with this one. It’s about to be embarrassing when Lizzie tugs on a lock of Lydia’s hair and says, “Well, I always thought it would be really fun to party with Lo.”

“I know, right?” Lydia laughs.

Ten minutes later, Lizzie’s curled up at the opposite end of the couch from Lydia wearing faded pajama bottoms and an ancient tee shirt, her hair in a messy knot at the crown of her head. She’s picking at the seafood risotto, a glass of white wine on the end table at her elbow. Lydia asks about her investors, and Lizzie gives a vaguely optimistic, noncommittal answer that’s equal parts “no, it went really well” and “I seriously don’t want to think or talk about work for the rest of the night.” Lydia recognizes the tone from two decades of living across the hall from the biggest overachiever on the West Coast; Lizzie likes her work and she’s good at it, but it’s hard and tiring and she’s earned a bit of a rest. Lydia used to like antagonizing her in these moods, to find a button and push it over and over until Lizzie went into a furious lockdown for hours. Now she just wants to rest her head in Lizzie’s lap, let Lizzie play with her hair until they’re both drowsy and peaceful. Instead, she offers Lizzie the remote and tells her Darcy’s hiding something in the freezer.

“Pretty sure it’s not a human head,” Lydia says. “I don’t think they deliver those.”

It’s salted caramel gelato, which she and Lizzie share, cuddled up together in the middle of the couch with Darcy on the floor at their feet. Lizzie queues up _Clueless,_ and Lydia downs another Percoset with her dessert and her ginger ale, falling asleep somewhere between “you’re a virgin who can’t drive” and “buttcrazy in love with Josh.” She’d been paying as much attention to Lizzie as to the movie, the way Lizzie sinks into the couch, curling and stretching like a cat. The way she absentmindedly reaches down to touch Darcy’s hair, his collar, the curve of his ear. She might have her own apartment, her own business, her own life, but this, this is Lizzie’s home. If not for the pain from having four unnecessary teeth yanked out of the bones of her face, Lydia might feel the tightness in her throat, the slightest ache at the thought that both of her sisters have found something so permanent, so real, so without her. But not really, she thinks, as everything blurs and softens and she feels her head droop on Lizzie’s shoulder, because they all love each other too well to leave each other behind.

She doesn’t wake when he lifts her from the couch, but she hears Lizzie fussing about the guest room, pulling down the sheets and turning on a nightlight in the bathroom, and she stirs awake just enough to realize Darcy’s actually tucking her in. Sort of. Pulling the covers over her, adjusting her extra pillow, making sure the sheets are tucked in at the bottom of the bed. She wants to wave him away, but her limbs feel too heavy, deadened. 

“‘S fine,” she says. “Night, Darce. ‘fanks.”

“You can call me William, you know,” he says.

She chortles, her eyes still closed. “Oh, god, no I can’t.”

Lizzie leans over her, on the other side of the bed, and drops a kiss on Lydia’s cheek. “Left the light on in the bathroom just in case.”

“Your boyfriend wants me to call him _William,”_ she says.

“You can do that if you want,” Lizzie says, her tone measured. This is her just-got-home-from-Carter’s voice. Her oh-so-reasonable, you-adorable-thing voice. It’s less infuriating now.

“I do not want to,” Lydia says. 

“Okay,” Lizzie says. “Sleep tight, sis.”

...

Everything is slightly less swollen and tender in the morning, but the sun is so bright coming through the window that Lydia wonders if penthouses have special glass that make everything super-illuminated. She wouldn’t be surprised. When she pads into the kitchen in her bare feet and her rumpled, two-day-worn pajamas, she is surprised to find both Lizzie and Darcy still there, seated at the center island with empty plates and carafe of coffee between them. Darcy’s reading the paper, Lizzie’s scrolling through something on her tablet, and they both look up with crazy, expectant smiles on their faces when they see her.

“Morning, weirdos,” she says. “May I have a glass of water?”

They both have work, it turns out, and they’re worried to leave her alone in this giant, cozy apartment while they go to meetings and give orders and do whatever it is people do when they run companies. Lizzie scrambles some eggs for Lydia as Lydia assures them both that she’s fine, the Percoset’s gone, but she’s going to get by with ibuprofen and soup and probably a lot more _Laguna Beach._

“Unless you want me to wait for you, Guillermo?” she says with a lift of her brow.

Darcy looks at her over the edge of his paper. “No. I will not even respond.”

“Okay, Guillaume.”

“No.”

“Guglielmo.”

“I feel that I should not even engage in this conversation,” he says, and Lizzie snickers. “You are not helping.”

“Whatever, Wilberforce,” Lydia says. “Thanks for the eggs, sis.”

...

She ends up staying the whole week at Darcy’s. Lizzie leaves her alone just the one day and they spend the rest of the time baking cookies, watching movies, doing each other’s nails. They both agree it’s borderline boring but nice at the same time. Darcy comes home for lunch a few days, and it turns out he makes a mean grilled cheese. Lydia’s just starting to feel at home and restful in his place when it’s time to pack up and go home, and her last shower runs so long she can barely feel the tips of her fingers when she’s done. It’s a really, really nice shower.

Lizzie is going to drive her to the airport alone, but Darcy walks them down (or rides with them in the elevator, more accurately) and waits with Lydia at the curb while Lizzie pulls the car around from the garage. They’re silent, and Lydia thinks it should be weird or awkward, but mostly it’s just silent. Just two people standing next to each other, waiting for someone they both love. 

“Thanks for letting me stay this week,” she says.

“You are welcome anytime, Lydia. It’s been a pleasure.”

She looks at him sidelong. He’s opted for a regular tie today, and a vest, and he looks like he’s about to go wait tables or start singing with twelve other dudes in identical outfits. The thought makes Lydia smile--he’s a dork, like a giant, world-class dork, but he would look super weird in jeans and a tee shirt, and she realizes she only wants to make fun of him a little. And not to make him feel bad, but just because she can. Because he’d get it. He’d accept the ribbing with a tip of his head, maybe even add onto the insult a little. At least he’d be head waiter, he’d say, or in charge of the pitch pipe.

“Thanks for taking care of me, and everything,” she says. 

“You don’t need--”

“And thanks for being good to my sister. Just... you’re okay, D. I think you’re all right.”

She taps her toes together, her eyes fixed on the pavement beneath her feet. She’s spent a lot of the last week adjusting to his presence. She likes that he doesn’t feel like he has to talk all the time. She likes that somewhere underneath all the button downs and ties and affectations is a sense of humor. Not a great one, maybe, but a growing one. She likes that he secretly really seems to enjoy _Laguna Beach_ and has actual opinions about Kristin vs. LC. She likes that she can tell he’s good, that he’s a good person with good intentions. And she likes that she can look at him and just think of who he is, and of Lizzie, and of the ways they’re good for each other. She likes that she’s spent a week with him and hasn’t felt like she owes him, except maybe for the gelato. That she can tell he genuinely likes her, in his own subdued way, and that he wants to build a relationship with her that has nothing to do with videos of any kind.

She has on bright pink Chucks today, and Darcy’s shoes are shiny black dress things that are probably wingtips or something from Italy. But he’s elbowing her, just pushing at her arm with his, and she tilts her head to look up at him. No, he can’t fake a smile, but his genuine ones are rather nice. 

“I think you are also all right,” he says.

She doesn’t hug him before she gets in the car, but she does tap him on the shoulder with an open hand.

“See you, Wilhelm.”

“No.”

And they smile and wave, and she winks at him as they pull away. “Bye, D.”


End file.
